Wait — it's the morning I decide to skip the legal review to close faster.

The late afternoon sun was beginning its slow, majestic descent into the western prairie, painting the Chicago skyline in breathtaking ribbons of gold, violet, and burning amber.

It was 6:00 PM on a Friday.

The engineers were packing their bags, laughing as they headed out toward the breweries of Fulton Market for the weekend. The sound of acoustic guitars and easy conversation drifted from the communal kitchen downstairs.

I remained on the terrace, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, watching the river turn from molten gold to deep, twilight indigo.

Beside me walked Sarah Vance, holding two glasses of aged bourbon. She handed one to me, clinking her glass against mine with a soft, clear ping that resonated through the quiet evening air.

"To the sovereign founder," Sarah smiled, taking a slow sip.

"To the lawyer who actually reads the annexes," I laughed, raising my glass in return.

"Speaking of annexes," Sarah said, pulling a folded sheet of newspaper from her leather bag and laying it on the cedar table. "The federal court in Oxford handed down the final sentencing decree this morning."

I looked down at the paper.

A two-inch article in the national legal digest:

JULIAN CROSS SENTENCED TO FOURTEEN YEARS IN FEDERAL PENITENTIARY; ORDERED TO PAY $48M IN VICTIM RESTITUTION.

I looked at the black-and-white print for three seconds.

Then, without a word, I picked up the paper, folded it neatly into a small square, and dropped it into the recycling bin beside the terrace door.

It wasn't my story anymore. It was just an old, forgotten footnote in a history book that had been rewritten by honest hands.

I walked back to the railing, leaning my forearms against the cool iron, taking a deep, uninhibited breath of the sweet evening air. My lungs expanded fully, clean, free, and unburdened by the phantom chill of an icy street corner.

The rain was gone. The cold pavement of Halsted Street was buried beneath five hundred days of honest labor, eighty thriving families, and a company that belonged to no one but the people who built it with their own blood and sweat.

I pulled my father’s pocket watch from my vest one last time.

The hands ticked steadily: 6:14 PM.